


mama's boy

by hawrthiacoopri



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Gen, ITS 2 AM, no one can have enough "rich spoiled brat + disadvantaged annoying class clown" stories, or emo ass sharing feelings between friends who usually dont talk about them stories, sooo i wrote this in one go at 12 am
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-16
Updated: 2017-08-16
Packaged: 2018-12-16 02:36:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11819460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawrthiacoopri/pseuds/hawrthiacoopri
Summary: The sadness subsided and the bitterness set in, a low anger at Richie for making that comment in front of everything. He bit back his hot, angry tears, blinking them away quickly until the bile in his throat subsided. Stanley Uris didn’t cry anymore. He’d wasted enough time(being a useless spoiled fucking mama’s boy you’re nothing but a spoiled rotten brat stan you’ve got no spine no talents your parents are tricking you they’re lying you’re just a dumbass no-talent rich kid)crying about stupid shit for no reason. Like the buh-buh-buh-buh-birds and other variants of Richie’s quips, like skinned knees and missing television for saturday morning services. Maybe he wasn’t so normal as everyone thought, but he had to be. Rich Jews didn’t have any talents. They just got rich and stayed rich, didn’t ever have to work, and even if he wanted to work he never would. He’d just survive on daddy’s money like everyone said, never have to work. The thought sent a chill down Stan’s spine.There was a soft knock at the door over the volumes of Stan’s thoughts.





	mama's boy

**Author's Note:**

> AYYY lmao!!! its ya girl not working on her projects!!!!
> 
> so basically this story is supposed to kinda reflect the difference between stan and richie's family dynamics and ESPECIALLY the difference in the way richie and stan think about self pity kinda???? because apparently richie has neglectful parents in the new movie so thats kinda cool lol. will be a shitshow to write though bc im too #deep.
> 
> enjoy!

“Shut up, you fucking mama’s boy.”

The words came quick and light, as laughing as Richie’s usually were, but they stung Stan like wasps.

“Mama’s boy.”

Stan kept his tongue, letting the words roll off of his back and going home quietly. Keeping it to himself.

Mama’s boy. He could remember the disdain Richie has used, the barely concealed jealousy and anger in his voice. How aggressive he’d seemed.

Stan felt a shiver go up his spine, but he simply hitched his backpack up farther and kept walking.

He knew why, of course. He’d seen everything the was to be seen of Richie Tozier. They were best friends after all. He saw ever crack in his humor and all the things Richie wanted to be able to find funny but couldn’t. He could see how each word landed on him, how every sentence someone hurles chipped away at Richie. Unfortunately, the chipping finally gave way just as Stan spoke up.

And of course someone had to bring up family.

Stan didn’t remember how, or when. He just remembered they had, and he’d seem Richie’s face harden in the way it always did. Richie’d replied with his usual slew of curse words and lewd jokes, probably about Eddie’s mom or something, and Stan, tuning in just for a second, decided to make an entrance.

“Damn, Richie, you kiss your mother with that mouth? Or at all?”

Richie’s lip had curled, almost imperceptibly. “Shut up, you fucking mama’s boy.”

Maggie Tozier was, admittedly, not something to tease about. She was a chainsmoker, she never went to bed sober,she was basically a serial cheater… and most importantly, Stan doubted she knew Richie was alive. Stan had talked to Maggie maybe twice, three times that he could remember, and all of them were in passing. Asking him to take money to buy her cigarettes, once or twice, asking for his mother’s name, but that was it. And Richie despised everything about it.

Richie was a high maintenance young man. He wanted attention, he wanted love. He wanted recognition. And his parents gave none. The fed him, clothed him, gave him running water, and that was about the end of the line. Richie had tried so, so hard to get them to pay attention, swearing up and down, getting all A’s repeatedly, breaking limbs and spraining things and making his eyes worse on purpose so they’d be forced to get him glasses. Needless to say, nothing worked.

Richie’d once joked he was lucky to have a middle or last name, since he figured they’d have forgotten about him by the time they got through the first one. And he didn’t have friends over, not ever, since he was humiliated. Stan was the only one allowed in his house who wasn’t in the family, and that was to pick up funnybooks and candy. No sleepovers. No playdates at Richie’s house.

Stan could hear the words in his head, the pure desperate envy.

“Shut up, you fucking mama’s boy.”

The words echoed in his head till he got home, where as usual, his mother was in their kitchen- the Uris house had an open floor plan, you could see the kitchen from the door- waiting for her Stanley to be back so she could make sure he was doing okay.

“Hey, Stanley,” Andrea said happily, drawing the short boy in close to kiss him on the crown of the head. Stan let her, albeit numbly, but hardly felt it. “How goes it?”

Stan nodded into her chest. “Good, mom, I’m good. Just… I’m a little tired, okay?”

“Sure!’ She let him out of her hug, holding him at arm's length and looking at him closely. “Tired as in sleepytired, or tired as in now you’re a rebellious teen who hates his muter?”

Stan snorted involuntarily at the word and the old yiddish name, shaking his head. He was ready to reply no, of course not, can we talk?, but the idea of talking to his mom about a problem with another mom seemed like a bad idea. As well as only further illustrating Richie’s point. Which Stan never allowed to happen.

“Sleepy. It was a long day today, mom.”

Andrea put her hands on her slim hips. “I’ll say, you’re finally home and it’s an hour ‘till curfew, Stanley Uris!”

Stan, ever the unaffected boy he was, rolled his eyes affectionately. “I’m sorry! Listen, I’ll come down later, I promise. But for now I’m going to my room, okay?”

“Okay.” Andrea watched her son take the stairs up to his room, calling after him, “Love you, cucciolo!”

Stan’s grip on the rail tightened, both at the pet name- little puppy in Italian, his mother’s first language- and the sentiment. But he still couldn’t stop himself from returning it; that would be almost sacrilegious. “Love you too, momma.”

He ran to his room, shutting the door and curling up on the bed. The only noise was his own breathing and the same old cogs whirring in his head.

Stan knew he was lucky. He had a father and a mother, first of all, both parents in the picture. He was wealthy was all get-out, with a big two story house in all the latest styles in the nicest neighborhood around that was full of stuff from his parent’s travels and pictures of family, mostly Stan. Stan had all the clothes he could want, every model of binocular he asked for (though he didn’t ask for much), a big room, full of cool trinkets and a bed that people

(richie did it most)

always loved to lay and sit on. He had anything he could ever want, and compared to his friends, Stan was in the lap of luxury.

But most importantly, Stan’s parents loved him.

They really did- they loved their little boy. They’d do anything for him, they thought he was absolutely amazing, they went out of their way for things he liked… they loved him. They were involved with him. Andrea Bertoli, an immigrant from Italy, and Donald Uris, who was from Russia, were both deeply invested in what they believed their little boy could be- the perfect example of the Jewish-American Dream. Smart, handsome, successful, kind, prepared… He had everything. His compulsions were a tad strange, sure, with his need to clean the bathroom constantly and his impeccable room, but they could be ignored. The Bertoli-Uris residence was one of love and warmth, both because of their great heating system and because of their cozy family unit.

Stan appreciated that. He loved his parents, too.

But it hurt him like fuck that all of his friends but Mike and Ben were hurt by it.

The noticing had started out small, Stan showing up late because he talked to his dad for too long and Beverly saying wistfully, “gee, Stanny, that sounds wonderful.” Stan complaining about his mother’s endless lectures on how “great he would grow up to be” and Richie making fun of her with his Granny Grunt voice. Stan explaining how he sometimes had to go to work with his father because Donald got lonely at the synagogue and wanted to show Stanley how his job worked and Bill casting him a fervent glance at the idea, the thought of a father wanting a son involved with him. Talking about the free will Andrea gave him and catching the look Eddie gave him.

Stan never meant to brag; he wasn’t that kind of boy. And he of course got in trouble for being impulsive, like when he used a plate as a frisbee, or brought a street dog home and fed it the gefilte fish. It’s just that everyone, even he, knew that his family was so perfect it almost hurt.

The guilt finally ate away at the last of his will and Stan made a noise of discomfort, rolling over and feeling the sadness pooling in his stomach. He hated that he made his friends feel bad. He hated knowing that his existence counteracted his best friend’s. He felt guilty for having such a nice family. A nice house. A nice life. And he knew it wasn’t fair, that letting himself feel bad was stupid. But he still did, privately, feel bad, and now was a time to feel bad.

The sadness subsided and the bitterness set in, a low anger at Richie for making that comment in front of everything. Calling him out for… what? Loving his mother? His mother loving him? What was wrong with that? Stan didn’t quite know- he only knew it was wrong. He bit back his hot, angry tears, blinking them away quickly until the bile in his throat subsided. Stanley Uris didn’t cry anymore. He’d wasted enough time

(being a useless spoiled fucking mama’s boy you’re nothing but a spoiled rotten brat stan you’ve got no spine no talents your parents are tricking you they’re lying you’re just a dumbass no-talent rich kid)

crying about stupid shit for no reason. Like the buh-buh-buh-buh-birds and other variants of Richie’s quips, like skinned knees and missing television for saturday morning services. Maybe he wasn’t so normal as everyone thought, but he had to be. Rich Jews didn’t have any talents. They just got rich and stayed rich, didn’t ever have to work, and even if he wanted to work he never would. He’d just survive on daddy’s money like everyone said, never have to work. The thought sent a chill down Stan’s spine.

There was a soft knock at the door over the volumes of Stan’s thoughts.

“Sweetie, Richie is on the phone for you. Do you want to take it or are you still tired?”

Stan rolled over again, looking at his mom through his fallen bangs. “I… I’ll take it, I guess.”

Stan padded downstairs, taking the phone as his mom left to give him privacy and coughing. Before Stan even had time, as usual, Richie spoke.

“Oh, good, you’re finally here! Listen, I’ve got some comics to trade if ya want. Want me to come over?”

“You won’t make it before curfew,” Stan said lackadaisically in his someone-has-to-be-sensible-here tone. “Maybe tomorrow.”

“Hell yeah I can make it!” Richie’s voice came through, just the tiniest bit tinny. “I can just hop on my bike and go, whaddya say?”

The boy sighed. “Rich, I dunno, I’m kinda wiped out right now.”

Richie was quiet for a moment, before saying simply, “sure,” and hanging up without another word. Stan put the phone down too, before going back to his room nearly silently and flopping back on his bed. Great. He fucked over Richie and himself, what was next?

He stayed like that a little longer, wanting to cry but not being able to, before he heard a knock at the door. He figured it was a package or something, and stayed still. It wasn’t until he heard a bright, happy voice that his stomach dropped lower. Richie had still come, because of course he did.

Richie came tromping up the stairs, papers rustling as his comics came up with him. Stan nearly groaned. He sat up slowly, letting Richie bust in and immediately go to Stan’s comic shelf. He barely looked at Stan as he grabbed them, tossing the comics towards his best friend and beginning his monologue.

“Okay, so I have a bunch of new Archies and a few Supermans but I know you like Marvel, so I also brought some of my special editions to see if you’d have anything half good in your dogshit collection, yeah? And-” Richie stopped when he saw Stan’s detached expression. He sighed, putting down his comics gingerly on the floor and clasping his hands together. “Okay. What’s up with you?” His voice was perfectly serious, something not even Stan really heard much.

“Huh?”

“What’s eatin’ ya? What’s hangin’? What’s going on in that ol’ noggin?” Richie listed off the phrases, and looked ready to list more, but Stan cut him off.

“No, I- I’m, cool. It’s nothing.” Stan chewed his lips as he looked at Richie warily, somehow still worried he was going to make a joke at Stan’s expense despite the fact no one was there to hear.

Richie sighed theatrically. “Oh, Stanley. You don’t even try to lie. What a little drama queen you are.” He made as if to pinch Stan’s cheeks, and almost did it, but Stan halfheartedly knocked his hands away and kept his eyes down. “Okay, Stan, seriously.”

Stan groaned long and loud, something Richie knew he did when he was irritated but almost ready to talk. The noise continued for a full forty five seconds before he started.

“God, it’s just- you all make me feel like such a stupid rich kid, you know? Like, you all work for your allowances and have to deal with shitty parents- the Losers do, I mean- but I just… don’t. I have like, one chore, to clean the cat’s litter box, and my parents aren’t complete shit, and I just… you all remind me of how lucky I am, and that makes me feel like absolute trash, that I’m just the boy who has everything to you guys. I mean, do you ever want to have to think about how much richer you are than your friends? No. I hate you guys have disadvantages where I don’t. And I hate I can’t really help. My whole life is so easy that it gets boring and just- no one cares, why even bother, you know? I’m not interesting. I’m not funny, like you, or strong, like Bill, or cool, like Bev or Mike. I just like birds. I’m just a Jew. I just don’t- I dunno. Whatever. You don't care, Richie, you think I’m just a fucking mama’s boy. You just think I don’t know how the world works. Maybe I don’t, I don’t know.”

Richie managed to keep silent, covering his mouth with his palm as he stared, fascinated, at his fidgeting friend. He let Stan’s ramble run it’s course, until the last line. “That’s not fair, Stanny,” Richie said quietly. “It’s not fair you get to tell me how I feel, it’s not fair we make you feel bad, it’s not fair Bill and Bev and Eds and I all have, like, shitty parents, and yeah, it’s not fair you got everything. You beginning to see a pattern? Life’s not fair, Stan.” Stan rolled his eyes. “I know it’s cliche, I hate how I sound like I’m from a movie, but it’s true. We all ‘re losers for a reason. Your reason’s just as good as ours. You don’t get shit less than us, you get more, just for being friends with a fag, on toppa being a Jew. Remember that time you came to the Barrens limping with a shiner because Henry didn’t like that he saw you in a, uh, a kippah the last Saturday, so he beat the shit out of you? Or that time he kept taunting you ‘bout being friends with me until I showed up and he could do it to my face?” There was silence. “Do ya?” Stan nodded. “See? You got stuff wrong, I see it whenever your dad talks to you. He loves you too much, Stanny. So many people love you way too much.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean that all of the Club just loves each other so much, Stan, that it begins to just not show up on our, uh, what’s the word…” He snapped his fingers. “Radar. Like, we don’t know that other people love us even though we do know, you know?”

“You don’t love me,” Stan accused. “You think I’m a spoiled brat.”

“That’s ‘cause you are a spoiled brat, Stan.” Richie giggled when Stan hit his shoulder. “What? It’s true, you know. You’re a rich kid, through and through. But that’s part of your charm. Cute spoiled rich kid, but you put up with me, so it’s okay.” This time Richie did pinch Stan’s cheeks, stretching them so that Stan looked like how you look in a carnival mirror. Stan let it happen, rolling his eyes and blinking, hard.

Richie cooed and teased, letting go of Stan’s cheeks and smiling indulgently at Stan. “Aw, is little Stanny crying?”

“No,” Stan choked out, and he wasn’t. He stopped as quick as he started, and sat up straight. “Thanks, Richie, you big asshole.”

Richie smiled at his friend. “Of course, favorite-friend. Say, if I was nice enough, would you give me five dollars?” Stan pushed him onto his side. “What, two?” Stan flicked him. “One?” Richie felt a sharp pinch on his wrist. “Ow! Jesus, okay! I won’t joke anymore, promise.”

“I don’t believe that,” Stan said testily.

Richie grinned, scooting closer to Stan so that they could share the comics. “Yeah. Me neither, Stanny-Rich. Now, have you read the new Spiderman comic?”

And Stan, the boy who had done and owned everything, hadn’t.


End file.
